


ill met by moonlight

by unintelligiblescreaming



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - Urban Fantasy, Cunnilingus, Dubious Morality, F/F, Face-Fucking, Faerie Vriska, Faestuck, Hair-pulling, Mild Painplay, Minor Dave Strider/Karkat Vantas, Nipple Play, Orgasm Delay/Denial, POV Terezi Pyrope, Part-Dragon Terezi, Part-time Paranormal Investigator Terezi, Porn With Plot, Worldbuilding, mild bloodplay, those sure are a lot of sex tags for something that is mostly not nsfw, you know that "if-you-blow-a-fairy-they-owe-you-a-debt" post?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-20
Updated: 2017-06-28
Packaged: 2018-09-09 23:17:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 13,443
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8917009
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unintelligiblescreaming/pseuds/unintelligiblescreaming
Summary: It’s common knowledge among the paranormally inclined that imbibing a copious amount of Monster energy drinks at precisely 2 a.m. inside a 7-Eleven is a fast way to the land of the fair folk, but many people are unaware that similar effect can be achieved with fifteen shots of espresso and any big-name chain store that stays open late at night.You decide to stick with the classic technique. You grab two Monster cans off the shelf and pop open the tabs.—She smells like… hm… like licorice, and sour blueberry candy, something bright and unnatural melting on the tongue. Like chloroform. Saccharine and sickening, the kind you can’t help but want more of. She smells dangerous, but the kind of dangerous you don't register until it’s far too late, you won’t even care, like a fly caught in honey—You jerk back, dizzy, and prop an arm on the wall to steady yourself. You’re naturally resistant, but shit, that’s a strong glamour.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> "S3LF C4R3 1S CHUGG1NG 5 MONST3R 3N3RGY DR1NKS 1N 4 7-3L3V3N 4T 2 4M 4T N1GHT 1N ORD3R TO 4CC3SS TH3 L4ND OF TH3 F41R FOLK" — terezi pyrope, probably
> 
> this chapter is sfw, but warnings for violence and, uh, unhealthy consumption. (it gets nsfw in chapter 3, in case you're wondering.)

You are Terezi Pyrope, college student and part-time paranormal investigator extraordinaire, and you are on the case. 

This particular case came your way through a friend of a friend—a rather unusual chain of events which ended with you standing on the roof of an apartment complex, negotiating with a time-traveling djinn named Dave. You are of the opinion that Dave is a stupid name for a djinn, and you told him so. He ignored your perfectly reasonable constructive criticism. Then he made you an offer: in return for recovering one half-human, half-fae individual by the name of Karkat Vantas, believed to be kidnapped and taken to the faerie realm by an agent of the Queen of the Faeries, he would pay $100,000 toward your college debt. You agreed immediately.

You’ve dealt with ghosts (a _lot_ of ghosts), hellhounds (your partial dragon heritage lends you a sense of smell nearly equal to theirs), and even an eldritch summoning ritual that threatened to rupture the fabric of paradox space (thankfully you texted Lalonde’s fiancé, who shouted at her until she sheepishly relinquished her connection to the horrorterrors). But this is the first time you’ve investigated anything to do with faeries, and quite frankly you’re excited.

Your research indicates that Mr. Vantas was a victim of a poorly-thought-out deal with the empress—something to do with his mixed human/inhuman heritage, apparently—and was most likely “collected” from his home by a fae called the Marquise, an individual notorious for the strength of her glamour and her missions into the human realm at the bidding of her queen.

It’s not easy to extract someone from the Unseelie Court, but it has happened. Usually you would emulate successful strategies that already exist, but past strategies have included everything from the rescuer offering themselves in the victim’s place to just straight-up challenging the empress’s consort to a duel.

Deals and contracts, loopholes and technicalities… you might not be a sword-wielding hero, but you’re a prelaw major with one-fourth dragon blood and a 4.0 GPA. If anyone can bamboozle the Unseelie Court into relinquishing a captive, it’s you.

The only problem left is how to actually reach the Unseelie Court. Gateways to the fae realm are temporary and shifting. They can be found at any liminal space, from a stone circle in the woods to a highway rest stop when the fog rolls in. Any place where the edges of reality go fuzzy would work, but Southern California is sadly lacking in mystical woods and you are disinclined to wait around next to the highway until some properly foreboding mist arrives, so you must resort to the most consistent and predictable of doorways into another world: drinking five Monster energy drinks in a row in a 7-Eleven at 2 a.m.

You step off the late-night bus and feel the cool air brushing your skin. You squint at the storefront. There are other stores bordering it, but they’re all dark and shuttered; the 7-Eleven is the only one that’s open. 

You step forward and push on the door, hearing the little bell tinkling dismally.

Fluorescent lights flicker. The linoleum tiles are battered and grimy. At this time of night, the empty product aisles stop being ordinary shop installments and begin resembling surreal monuments in honor of the all-encompassing power of capitalism. One light fixture is halfway detached from the ceiling, threatening to fall onto the head of an unsuspecting customer at any moment.

“Hi. Welcome.”

It’s the least friendly “hi, welcome” you’ve ever heard. 

The person behind the counter is glaring at you like you stole her first-born child. “How can I help you,” she grates out.

You frown. “Isn’t this that other guy’s shift? Tanner. Or something.”

You’ve been scouting out this branch for a few nights now, and the guy who usually takes the late shift is a nervous guy who smells suspiciously like the otherworldly kind of chocolate. You never got close enough to tell if he wears a glamour, but between that and the fact that every gate must have a gatekeeper, you’re pretty sure he’s not human.

Her glare increases. “Tavros is home sick, and I owed his girlfriend a—” Her mouth twists in disgust. “A _debt._ So here I am, manning the cash register which I barely know how to use, at fuck off o’clock at night.”

Right, then. Well, the replacement is certainly attractive, in a long-tangled-hair, viciously-exhausted, capable-of-taking-you-out-with-a-single-punch kind of way. You take a step toward the counter and take a sniff. She smells like… hm… like licorice, and sour blueberry candy, something bright and unnatural melting on the tongue. Like chloroform. Saccharine and sickening, the kind you can’t help but want more of. She smells _dangerous,_ but the kind of dangerous that you won’t even register until it’s far too late, you won’t even care _,_ like a fly caught in honey—

You jerk back, dizzy, and prop an arm on the wall to steady yourself. You’re naturally resistant, but _shit,_ that’s a strong glamour.

Apparently your reaction must have been intriguing or something, because she’s raising her eyebrows in amusement. “Something wrong?” she asks sweetly.

“Nothing whatsoever,” you say, walking quickly away from her down the drinks aisle. 

Typically a gatekeeper will make at least a moderate attempt to prevent humans from crossing into the fae realm, and since your dragon blood isn’t exactly obvious, you figured you might have to fend off the stuttering nervous salesclerk who was supposed to be on duty today. You’re not so sure about your chances against this one, though. You’ll have to be on your guard.

You contemplate the coffee machine. It’s common knowledge among the paranormally inclined that imbibing a copious amount (at least five) Monster energy drinks at precisely 2 a.m. inside a 7-Eleven is a fast way to the land of the fair folk, but many people are unaware that similar effect can be achieved with fifteen shots of espresso and any big-name chain store that stays open late at night. After brief deliberation, you decide to stick with the classic technique. You grab two Monster cans off the shelf and pop open the tabs.

You hear the sound of a chair being pushed back. “Hey, you can’t just—” the faerie starts.

Ooh, that sounds like a _challenge._ “Watch me!” You throw your head back and start chugging.

Something crashes off a shelf. “Stop that! You haven’t even paid for—arghh!”

Your thoughts turn to syrup. The air is molasses, dim and comforting. You look down at your hands. Why on Earth are you holding two cans of energy drink, and why have you just started drinking them in the middle of the store? And without paying first, no less. How utterly rude of you.

“Ugh, I can’t believe this shit,” she says, each syllable echoing melodiously in your ears. “Why the hell do humans even want to cross over? I can’t believe I let the fucking Handmaid trap me into…” Her voice becomes unintelligible as she leans down to pick up whatever fell earlier.

The moment eye contact breaks, your world snaps into focus. Fuck fuck _fuck,_ you need to focus, don’t let her slip back into your mind. 

Okay. You suck in a deep breath and down the second can.

By the time she turns around with an indignant “what the fuck?!” you’re already halfway through the third Monster Energy (Unleash The Beast™). She tries to slap it out of your hand, but you twist under her arm and slop the rest of it into your open mouth. Then you snatch a fourth and fifth from the shelf.

She tackles you around the waist. You knee her in the stomach, she goes _oof_ and loosens her hold. You scramble away and run behind the counter, pop open the cans with jittery fingers and keep drinking.

The fae guardian yells a fearsome battle cry. The counter you’re hiding behind is shattered by a glowing blue blade, but you’re at that stage of energy drink consumption where your your heart is beating a frighteningly irregular rhythm and your neurons feel smeared across your gray matter, so in all honesty you barely notice that she’s trying to cut you in half.

You swallow the last drop. 

Everything shifts.

The air is cleaner, sharper. Colors are brighter. Even your bones feel light.

Where the broken formica counter used to be, there is now an intact counter, free from grime or dents. The floor is sparkling clean. Where there were products fallen from the shelves, there is now perfect order, although upon closer inspection the products are not the same—the brand names are different, the cheery packaging illustrations replaced by sigils shifting in mesmerizing patterns. In place of energy drinks, there are dusty, unlabeled green bottles.

“You owe me for those fucking drinks, mortal,” spits the faerie.

You look at her and your breath catches in your throat. Her hair is still black and tangled, but it shimmers like starlight on a black ocean, and her skin is the gray of a statue hewn from ancient rock. Her wings are bright cerulean. Instead of a sweater and torn jeans, she’s wearing a coat and dress in pitch black, laced with cobalt embroidery. A curved sword hangs at her waist, blue fire extinguishing itself as you watch.

You shake yourself out of your trace (come _on,_ you can be hopelessly gay for the faerie girl some other time) and fish a crumpled-up twenty from your pocket. You drop it on the counter. “Debt paid.”

“Yeah, well, you made me tear up half the store, so that’s gonna cost too,” she says. “And when I decide what price you’re paying you’ll be _real_ sorry.”

“Wrong, Miss Blueberry! I am not responsible for the damage, you are.”

She scoffs. “You instigated it. I reacted reasonably.”

“In this realm, perhaps, but the incident occurred in the human realm, and the details of the Unseelie’s contract with 7-Eleven and its parent corporation require all fae emissaries covering the 2 a.m. shift to obey by all human laws and customs,” you say. “Resorting to violence before even issuing a verbal warning is highly frowned upon in human custom. It’s also illegal! We call it ‘assault’.”

Her face twists up like she’s bitten into something rotten. “Fine, you get off scot-free and I owe 7-Eleven a pile of gold. Whatever!” She rolls her eyes. “Now just… go and get yourself killed by meddling in a land in you don’t understand. As long as it happens outside of this store.”

“Sure. But first I’m calling in your debt to me.”

“Fuck you. I owe you nothing.”

“Eeeexcept for how you assaulted me in the course of perfectly legal business! You’re only supposed to stop humans from crossing over. I’m one-fourth dragon.”

“How the hell was I supposed to know that?”

You shake your head, smiling. You figured you would have to find a faerie to trick into a deal, but you hadn’t expected it to happen so soon and so conveniently. “You know what they say about assumptions. But in this case the only one who’s being made an ass is you, Miss Blueberry.”

“…fuck you times _eight._ What do you want?”

“Safe passage into and out of the Unseelie Court, for me and one other individual of my choosing.”

She stares at you, eyes wide, for a full twenty seconds. Then she throws back her head and laughs. “Oh my god. You’re hilarious. No way in hell is a little ‘assault’ worth that.”

“I’m prepared to negotiate down from that,” you say, pulling out your phone and opening a text memo. “Let’s talk terms.”

“You want a formal contract? For something small like this?”

You shrug. You’re not going to be that sucker who gets stuck in the fae realm for all eternity because they forgot to nail down each and every term of the agreement.

She tosses her hair over her shoulder imperiously. “Alright, then. Contract it is.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter is also [on tumblr](http://unintelligible-screaming.tumblr.com/post/152862974182/ill-met-by-moonlight-part-1). so is the next chapter, in fact, so if you want to read ahead you should probably visit [my writing tag](http://unintelligible-screaming.tumblr.com/tagged/unintelligible+scribbling).


	2. Chapter 2

You clear your throat and read the key sentence. “I, known as the Mortal for the purposes of this contract and this contract only, hereby swear to declare this particular debt fulfilled, if you, known as the Faerie for the purposes of this contract and this contract only, hereby swear to abide by the terms and conditions stated below.”

She’s the debtor, which means you get to set the terms, but the principle of equal return is in force, so you can’t just demand an impossibly high price. It’s not a long list, but it’s specific and effective. She will accompany you and guarantee your safe passage to the Unseelie Court without unnecessary detours, but only for you alone and only up to the point of entry to the Court. She will swear not reveal your presence or your plans and she will not conspire toward your personal harm or try to ensure your failure in your objective.

Miss Blueberry scrolls through the list again, then tosses it to you. “The contract is sealed.” You pretend that you aren’t somewhat intimidated by how her sword glows eldritch blue when she says that. “Now can we leave?” she demands.

“Lead the way. I assume faeries have cars?”

“Of course we have cars, you ignorant little slime.”

“What about wifi?”

“We _invented_ wifi.”

“Good to know.” 

You follow her out the door. Like with the 7-Eleven, everything is a mirror of the human realm. The parking lot here is even emptier than the one back there, with only a single sleek black sedan, which Miss Blueberry is heading toward. “Nice ride. From the lack of a roaring nightlife I assume we’re in the Seelie lands?”

She sighs, sliding into the driver’s seat. “Yes, genius, we’re in Seelie territory. That’s not obvious at all. You’re totally not going to be slaughtered within the next ten hours due to sheer stupidity.”

“Also good to know,” you say, circling around and getting in. You sniff the seat. “Ooh, new car smell!” It also smells wonderfully like its owner, that intoxicating mix of sour and sweet, but you certainly won’t be telling her that.

“If you lick my leather, I will remove your tongue.”

You waggle the tongue in question at her. She rolls her eyes, but you spot the tiny upward twitch of her mouth. 

One of her pointed teeth is poking out onto her bottom lip, and it’s… really cute? A curl of black hair frames her face in just the right way, and her autumn-orange horns extend elegantly from her skull. Her wings are folded tightly between her and the seat, but they make tiny, absentminded fluttering movements when you look closely.

You realize you’ve been staring at her with your mouth open for a whole minute. You look away.

The car starts without the sound of an engine and leaves the lot in eerie silence. The familiar suburban landscape quickly shrouds itself in fog.

Instead of the intersection that exists in the same spot in the human world, the road continues straight ahead, no corners or signs. Nothing else but road. No indication that there is anything else but road in the entirety of the universe.

Time passes; you don’t know how long. 

There’s a vague uneasiness in your stomach. Your body knows that it’s somewhere it was not meant to be. You start reaching blindly for conversation, trying to find a distraction. “We’ve just been driving in a straight line. There are no landmarks. Are you navigating to the Unseelie Court by driving in a straight line?”

“Depends on what you mean by a straight line. In the mortal realm directions are all fucked up. You say you’re driving straight but actually you’re spinning at hundreds of miles per hour on some kind of goddamn spherical rock, and that’s inside a solar system moving through a galaxy named after a cow product, and apparently the galaxy itself is corkscrewing through space at rapid speed too. Faerie, on the other hand, makes sense. So yes, we’re gonna get there by driving in a straight line. How else would you do it?”

“Doesn’t feel that different than a normal highway.”

You’re lying. It feels like stumbling through a dark room with your nose plugged.

“Hah! Mortals.”

“Wow, way to be a dick about the immortality thing,” you say. “Totally doesn’t betray your superiority complex at all.”

“Just go away for the next thirty years ‘till you die of cell damage,” she shoots back.

“I’m sorry? Thirty years? You think I’m due to keel over in thirty years? How old do you think I am?”

The drive continues. Flawed time perception is a common problem in the fae realm, but you are unprepared for your body’s physical rejection of it. After… however long it may be, faint shapes emerge in the mist: a copse of trees, a mountain range, the glimmer of strange moons on stranger waters. At one point you see a procession of people, some on horseback, some carrying torches. They keep pace for a while, then fall back into the distance.

You turn so that your body is facing your driver. “Are we theeeerrre yet?”

She looks at you like you’ve suggested she drive her fancy car into a lamppost.

You change tactics. “Is it easy to cross over between Seelie and Unseelie, or can only some people do it?”

“Of course not everyone can do it, otherwise people would waltz through all the time. You need a special travel dispensation.”

“But you’re not the standard gatekeeper. That’s the other guy. Whatever his name was.” She mentioned it (probably) a short time ago, so you should remember, but it’s as if the word won’t fit properly into your brain. You figure it means the name Miss Blueberry gave you was the guy’s true name, since true names aren’t true unless given by the one they belong to. Otherwise the syllables will refuse to stick in the listener’s mind. “What reason do you have to travel between worlds?”

“More important things than gatekeeping, that’s for sure,” she says. “I track down debtors.”

“Heh. So if you reneged on our deal you’d have to track yourself down?”

Her hands clench on the steering wheel. Her nails are long and pointed like talons, sharp enough to cut. “I track down those in debt to my Court,” she corrects.

Her glamour is stronger than any you’ve sniffed out, she tried to incapacitate you with a sword of faerie-forged steel, she’s made it clear that she is unaccustomed to existing at the level of a common fae. You have to ask: “Which Court is yours?”

A scoff and an eye roll. “The Unseelie, obviously. You didn’t take me for a summer sucker, did you?”

“Okay, I should have guessed that,” you admit. Then you brighten up. “Wait, you go into the mortal realm to collect on debts. That means you probably know the Marquise!”

She jerks forward, wings fluttering. “Um. What?” she sputters.

“The Marquise Spinneret Mindfang.”

“Yeah, I know the name,” she says, blinking uncontrollably. “Why are you asking?”

“It’s related to why I’m here.”

“Oh really. Huh. Who’d have thought. Yeah, I’ve, uh, definitely heard of her, that’s for sure,” she says.

“I hear she’s pretty intimidating.”

“Damn straight.”

“Your reaction is giving me hints that you know something I don’t.”

She coughs. “It’s nothing. Don’t worry about it.”

Another period of silence. Instead of staring blankly out the window, you take the time to discreetly examine your companion. You’re not sure where the lighting is coming from, since there aren’t any lights in the car and or lamps lining the highway, but the hollows of her face are cast in an oddly gentle manner for someone so aggressive. Pools of shadow rest in her collarbones, shifting as she breathes. You wonder what her skin feels like.

She seems lost in her thoughts. Her mouth twitches occasionally, like she’s thinking a mile a minute inside her head, but she doesn’t bother starting a conversation out loud. Maybe it’s the dangerously sweet scent that she exudes from every pore, or maybe you’re simply mesmerized, but you find yourself drifting into sleep. You know you shouldn’t—it’s dangerous to dream in this place—but your eyes are closing all the same.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter is also on [tumblr](http://unintelligible-screaming.tumblr.com/post/153369959847/ill-met-by-moonlight-part-2)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here comes the nsfw, folks! it's in the second half of the chapter, so if that's not your thing, just stop reading when they start making out and pick it up next chapter.

“Here we are!” announces Miss Blueberry.

You flail and push yourself upright, blinking away sleep. There’s a flicker of a dream on the edge of your mind, the taste of something awful and strange on your tongue, but you’re not thinking about that right now. “What? Here? Where?”

Up ahead is a vast storm. Clouds shake with thunder, darkness roiling in their bellies, and lightning keeps shattering the sky. The rainfall is a wall laid across the horizon. It approaches with impossible speed.

You grip the armrests. “We’re headed right in the middle of that thing!”

“Yes we are!” she shouts gleefully, slamming the gas.

You squeak at the sudden acceleration. “How fast are we—?”

“Who’s counting?”

The tumults and eddies in the seething storm are stomach-droppingly magnified as they approach. Clouds tower into the sky, looming above, no chance of escape. It swallows you.

Weightlessness. There’s the crack of thunder and the roar of buckets’ worth of rain hitting the roof all at once, and then nothing.

Eventually, you become aware that the car is moving again. The road is smooth and there is no sensation of movement, so you’re not sure how you know the car is driving forward, but you do. It’s moving down a long stretch of road, and when you inhale, your heart jumps.

Thousands of stars lie overhead. It’s as if a jug of diamonds was spilled across the sky, littering the black velvet with pinpricks of light. Sounds assault your ears—car horns, motorcycles revving, pedestrians chatting, drivers shouting.

“Miss Blueberry,” you say. “Are we in Unseelie?”

“Yeah, bu—what did you just call me?”

You ignore her and roll down the window, sticking your nose out like a dog. _Now_ Miss Blueberry’s car makes a harsh engine sound, and the street is jammed with traffic. There are buildings along the sidewalk, but everything moves so fast that they’re merely a multicolored blur. It’s an abrupt contrast to the Seelie lands’ wavering unreality; everything feels so physical, so real, that it beats anything the mortal realm could ever put forward. It makes your head whirl, and you start to grin. The Unseelie really put the “life” into “nightlife.”

The car in front of you stops a little too abruptly, and your faerie companion hits the horn irately. “Fuck you too, pal!” she shouts.

“I hope not all of these people are headed for the Court,” you say. “Otherwise we’d be spending a few hours in traffic.”

She shrugs. “Good thing we’re not actually going to the Unseelie Court.”

You whip your head around. The car jerks to a stop in front of a red light. She looks more disgruntled about the red light than her derailment of your contract.

“Excuse me?”

She grimaces. “Sure, we’ll get there eventually, but I’ve been awake for like forty-eight hours. I need some sleep before I offend the Queen with your presence.”

“The deal was no unnecessary detours.”

“Oh come on, this counts as necessary! I have business to take care of at my home, and then I’m sleeping. Besides, it’s already past midnight. The Queen won’t allow visitors to the Court until the sun sets tomorrow.”

You chew on your lip. Faeries can be sneaky, but they can’t lie to your face, and you smell only honesty and the faint aroma of day-old pudding. “And we’re just, what, gonna have a sleepover at your house until tomorrow night? Will there be hair-braiding? Fingernail painting? Trauma-inducing games of truth or dare?”

She groans. “I’m taking you to the Court, what more do you want?”

“I can’t stay in your dwelling.”

You don’t need to enumerate the reasons aloud. Her words imply an offer of hospitality, a place to sleep when you have nowhere else to go. A faerie’s dwelling is not somewhere you bring someone you don’t trust, not unless you are under extreme duress, so you don’t _think_ she’s trying to trap you into owing her, but that doesn’t mean you wouldn’t come out of it with a debt you couldn’t repay.

Silence for a while. She grits her teeth, and you can actually hear the tiny grinding sound of enamel. “Even your silence is pointy. I hate that,” she mutters.

You’re startled into a laugh. “That implies that the rest of me is pointy.”

“You _are_ pointy.”

“My glasses, maybe. The rest of me not so much. ‘Soft’ or ‘round’ would be a better descriptor.” You poke your tummy for emphasis.

She looks confused. “What? No, I wasn’t talking about your corporeal form. I meant the way you say things. Your written contract fixation. Your mind.”

“My mind is… pointy?”

“Sharp and edged. It doesn’t like to stay still, or be held.” She shifts abruptly to the right lane without hitting her turn signals. A jam-packed bus honks at her as it zooms past. “Anyways, I’m heading home and you fucking know what? You don’t want my hospitality, you can sleep in the car.”

“A car is still a safe space that belongs to you. The results would be about the same.”

“Then what you’ll owe me for sleeping in my dwelling will cancel out what I owe you for whatever ‘assault and battery’ is supposed to be!”

“No.”

“No?”

“We made a contract—that’s more stable than a normal debt. It can’t be nullified until it’s fulfilled. I’ll owe you a separate debt, but it won’t cancel out the first one.”

“Oh, fuck you,” she says. “I was hoping you’d forget.”

You raise an eyebrow teasingly. “I thought you said I was sharp?”

“Do you know how tired I am? Do you know?” Her face starts to go red, and you realize you just pushed a button. “I spent a whole thirty-six hours awake on a single hunt in the mortal realm, and then the Handmaid, that awful little Seelie time sprite, shows up and is like, hey, you know you owe me this massive life debt and now I can literally control your every action? How about you do this totally humiliating task!”

“How—”

“And then _you_ show up, with your pointy little words and your pointy little thoughts, and suck me into this stupid repayment cycle. I’ve never been in debt to a mortal before. Do you know how embarrassing that is?” She throws her hands up in the air, causing the car to swerve dangerously before she yanks it back again.

“Um—”

“And I know, I just know, that the Orphaner’s going to see me when I show up at the Queen’s Court dragging you along, and he’s going to get all snotty with his little simpering w’s, and the entire Court is going to watch it and it will be humiliating.”

Her driving is increasingly erratic. “Uh, maybe you should watch the—” you try.

“You know what? Fuck it. I nullify any debt payments required by you seeking shelter under my roof within the next day/night cycle. There. It’s done.”

“…thanks?”

She jerks the steering wheel to the right. You yelp, catching yourself just before your nose smashes into the windowpane.

The city lights streak by increasingly fast, then dissolve into smoke. There’s an acrid tang on the roof of your mouth.

Something _happens_ , another strange fae shift, and the car screeches on the brakes and halts in front of a tall, lone building.

“Home sweet home,” she snarls.

The building’s rooms are stacked haphazardly, like a structure of wooden blocks made by a child. Twelve-paned windows glow with yellow light. It’s several stories high, with walls of dark grey cement.

Miss Blueberry gets out of the car and slams the door behind her. She manifests a set of keys and marches toward the front door. “Are you coming or do I have to drag you?"

You scramble to follow.

She unlocks the door and shoves you in. You catch your balance and look around. It’s a living room furnished like a high-rise apartment out of a real estate commercial, with polished floors and a sleek black leather couch and an elegant modernist coffee table. Everything is in black, grey and white, with hints of cobalt blue here and there.

You inhale. The air is thick with cloying sweetness, and you recognize it as her signature scent. A giant multi-paned window looks out onto an impossibly lush green forest landscape, dewdrops like crystals on each perfect leaf on each perfect tree. It looks real enough that it probably is, even if the forest isn’t physically connected to the true outside of the house.

“Is a grand tour scheduled?” you ask, walking up and hooking your arm through hers.

She sighs deeply and rubs at the circles under her eyes, but she lets your arm stay where it is.

She leads you to the hallway and points at the doors. “That is the spare room, this is my bedroom, and there is a door you will not enter for any reason.”

The last door she points at is mahogany and has a total of eight gigantic padlocks, each glowing with the same menacing light as the sword she almost decapitated you with. You nod. “You’re right. I will definitely not be entering your eldritch faerie sex dungeon.”

“Fu—” She catches herself and glares. “I have business to conduct in my _private affairs_ , so just… don’t destroy my furniture, okay?” She unlatches herself from your arm and goes to the locked door. She drags a finger down each lock; they click in succession.

You sniff discreetly as the door swings open. You catch a draft of air with the tang of dried blood and cold iron.

“HEY!” shouts someone hoarsely. “LET ME—”

The words dissolve into pained coughing, and then the faerie slams the door shut behind her. The smells cut off abruptly.

Now that you’re alone, your senses heighten. The air seems colder than before, and it presses down on your skin. You may have been invited, but that does not make you welcome, and the house knows that.

You lay an ear against the mysterious mahogany door, but it’s soundproof. Disappointed, you wander back toward the living room.

It’s kind of weird—it doesn’t feel lived in at all. You seriously doubt that the house’s inhabitant is interested in modernist furniture or such excessively clean floors. Maybe she spends more time somewhere else? She did say that she’d spent thirty-something hours in the human realm on a single mission.

You wonder what her bedroom looks like. You decide to investigate.

A poke at her door allows it to swing silently open. You raise an eyebrow at what you see inside. The furniture is all leather and expensive wood, and the queen-size bed is draped in black silk, but it’s completely filled with random junk.

Clothes are strewn everywhere, doodles on sketchbook paper are scattered across the desk, board games are in haphazard piles on the floor. There’s even a bunch of broken 8-balls in a corner for no apparent reason. It looks like the bedroom of a ten-year-old who was never told to put their toys back after playing with them, but there’s something about it that makes you want to step inside… take off your jacket… sit down… relax your muscles… You can’t even tell if it’s magic or not.

In this place that feels so strongly like her, your thoughts drift to her hair falling over her shoulders, the regal line of her nose. That brief moment of warmth when her skin touched yours.

The faintest of shivers graces the back of your neck. Perhaps it’s a bad idea to be so incredibly attracted to a faerie who has already tried to kill you.

(Then again, you did your research, and you know there are ways you could use the situation in your favor, if you play your cards right—)

“What are you doing?”

You jump. Miss Blueberry is standing behind you, looking exasperated. Flakes of what appears suspiciously like blood cling to her hands. She wipes it off on her coat.

“Just looking around,” you say, taking in the twist of her lips, the way her eyes keep darting up and down instead of meeting yours directly.

“Yeah, well, whatever you’re planning, it’s not—”

You take her face in your hands and kiss her.

She makes a shocked little “mmh!” sound, and then you feel her hands in your hair. There’s a row of tiny pinpricks that can only be her claws. She bites down on your lower lip, sharp teeth almost breaking skin, almost instinctive, and kisses back hard.

Your thumb moves in a circle over her cheekbone. She pulls back a little, repeats, “Whatever you’re planning, it’s not gonna work.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” you say, tossing your glasses to the floor and pressing a kiss just below her ear. Her skin looks like polished stone, but it’s as soft as satin under your lips. She smells so sweet.

She makes a doubtful sound, but half a second later her hands are sliding beneath your shirt. “This is a bad idea,” she says, but she doesn’t sound very convinced. She’s beginning to flush, tinting her cheeks a faint blue. It’s kind of weird and also cute as fuck.

“All the best ideas are,” you say, a little breathless, and just when you’re about to say something else to correct that stupid thing you just said, her mouth is on yours again. Her tongue slips between your teeth; she tastes like pure sugar. You feel dizzy. Electricity sparks in your veins.

You shake off the threads of her glamour and tug at the lapels of her coat. She steps back and shrugs it off, then returns to rubbing circles into your waist. You drag your mouth from her lips to her neck, lingering at her collarbone.

She pulls your shirt off and unhooks your bra, then swipes a thumb over your breast. You shiver. You’re heating up all over, prickling from the cold air and burning like flame where she touches you, nerves pulsing with sharp pleasure.

You fumble at the the hem of her pants. After a few seconds of watching you struggle, she pushes them down and discards the rest of her clothes swiftly, then returns to overwhelming your senses.

Her teeth catch your tongue, and your own blood floods your mouth, turned thick and sweet by some fae magic. You gasp. The grip on your breast tightens, her claws pricking tiny wounds into your skin. The pain dances along your nerves, metamorphosing into a thrill of delight.

She’s not wearing underwear. Your fingers play with the dark curls emerging at her waist, dip down, tracing along the edge of a faint line of wetness. She twitches lightly.

She starts walking you backward, kicking junk out of the way until your legs collide with the bed. Your knees fold. She settles in your lap, and you take in the feel of your bodies pressed together.

“You’re like charcoal. Something that burns,” she murmurs.

In response, you curl a finger into her. She moans into your mouth.

You bite down on her lower lip and swirl your finger back and forth. So warm, so _warm,_ oh. She rises up to kneel over you, and you take the opportunity to swirl your tongue around her nipple, watching her areola flush brightly.

The heat under your skin settles into a heady rhythm, pounding from your toes to your head. You clench your thighs -- it does nothing to help the ache between them.

She bucks forward, insistent, pushing herself down onto your hand, and you retract a little in surprise. She breaks off the kiss to huff at you. Her pout is adorable.

“Sorry,” you say, unapologetic. You start stroking her again. Offhand: “You know I heard a rumor that faeries had, like, tentacles down there?”

She makes a choking sound. She stops moving. “What the fuck?!”

“I figured it was unlikely,” you defend.

“You thought faeries had _what?_ ” She looks horrified.

“I said it was just a rumor, and—”

Her eyes dart downward. “So what you have down there is—?”

“Same thing as you, seems like.”

She opens her mouth, probably to say something snarky, but you decide you’ve done enough talking tonight. You take two fingers and spread her, slowly. Her breath hitches.

You slide back and forth and she’s so slick she practically glides. Whatever thought she had before is gone; she’s rocking to meet your rhythm, entranced, lips open in a perfect round O. One of her hands is gripping your shoulder, the other grasping your breast, tight enough to bruise. You throb with soreness and pleasure, the sensations tangling with each other inseparably. You want her so bad.

You shift impatiently, wishing you could reach down and get to work on yourself a bit. But no. That’s not the plan here.

You try running through the list of things that make a debt in your head, the one you memorized over and over, but she’s _shaking_ at your touch, and you don’t even get through a single repetition.

You scissor deeper into her with every stroke, and she gasps a little louder every time. The cloying tang of her faerie magic fills the room like smoke, clinging to your lungs. “Oh god,” you murmur. “Oh god.”

You drag your teeth along the vulnerable skin under the curve of her breast. She shudders for you, grips you closer, almost proprietary. “That’s it, that’s right,” you gasp.

Ngh. You need a better position to do what you really want to do. You wrap an arm around her waist and turn a little, nudging her onto her back. She makes a sound of protest, rubbing against your stomach, but you keep nudging until she gets the hint and falls onto her back. She spreads her limbs out on the bed, and she’s so strikingly beautiful like that that your thoughts desert you for a moment, and you just stare, dumbstruck.

Her lips are swollen and her face is blue-tinted from exertion. Shreds of glamour shimmer at the corners of your sight—you’re not even sure she’s consciously controlling it at this point. The scent filling the room takes on a hint of licorice. Her chest is heaving with breathlessness, but she smirks anyway. “Enjoying the view?”

That snaps you out of it. “Really, Miss Blueberry? A cliché like that at a time like this?”

“Are you really in a position to be insulting my conversational choices right now?” she asks, and you shut her up by sliding four of your fingers inside her at once. Her hips stutter upward, lifting off the bed. You hold her down with your other hand.

You twist your fingers slowly, not hard enough to satisfy. She whines, “Oh come _on.”_ She writhes, body curving so deliciously against the sheets, breasts bouncing, gleaming with sweat.

A pang of insecurity hits you, seeing the stark difference between her body and yours, with your stocky frame and round stomach. Then you remember that she’s out of her mind for _your_ touch, _you’re_ bringing a faerie of the Unseelie Court to the edge, she’s getting whiny and impatient for _you_. You grin. “You have no patience,” you say, dragging blunt nails against her inner wall, feeling her shudder around you. “It’s more satisfying if you wait.”

“Fuck you,” she mutters. She reaches down and grips your wrist with her needlelike claws, shoving your hand insistently downward. You’re sharply aware of how dangerous she is, how capable of rending your flesh, and it only turns you on more.

God, you might just be aching as hard as she is, but there are rules about debts and orgasms, and you have to stick to them, even if your arousal is telling you to throw it all out the window.

You dip your head down and press your tongue to her folds.

She actually kicks at that, and you narrowly dodge her foot. “Whoa there,” you say, voice vibrating against her delicate tissue. She twitches, moaning.

She’s soaking wet. You press teasing kisses against her inner lips, tasting the fluids coating your mouth. She’s sharp and sweet, like blackberries drenched in syrup.

It tingles on your tongue, muddying your head, and you have to concentrate to avoid getting high off magic-laced faerie cum. “You taste so lovely,” you tell her.

Her feet scrabble for purchase in the silky sheets. Your tongue swirls around and around, and her hands land in your hair and _pull_. You groan into her, eyes fluttering closed, pain blooming through your roots, agonizing and magnificent.

She begins to rock against you, and you open your mouth and comply. Your tongue swipes out to lick at whatever is in reach as she leans upright and uses her grip on your hair to fuck your face. You’re rutting against the edge of the bed, too desperate to control yourself, as her liquids coat your cheeks and you let her do what she wants with you.

She moves fast and hard, barely letting you breathe, muttering nonsense, saying “Good, good, oh you’re so _perfect_ you little wondrous mortal, oh you’re so _good_ , I’m so lucky I found you, _oh—_ ”

She yanks you up an inch and your lips close around her clit. You suck at her, tongue rubbing frantically—she gives one final, drawn-out gasp.

Her claws clench in your hair, scraping harshly across your scalp. You feel the shudders run through her body, the smell of her glamour eddying through your senses.

You watch, rapt, as she collapses onto her back. Her legs cease to twitch. Her breasts tremble and go still.

It takes a moment for you to realize it’s over. Especially since you’re still incredibly aroused. Your heart pounds in your chest, your palms, the soles of your feet, and your wet, throbbing ache won’t go away.

You grimace. You didn’t even get to touch yourself, not even a little, and the thought is so tempting that you almost reach down and do it. She would still owe you for giving her an orgasm and then not getting you off in return, right?

But no, the debt wouldn’t be as strong, and you need all the advantages you can get in this place.

As if on cue, Miss Blueberry tilts her head to face you. Her face is swollen and tired. “Mmh. Do you need… I can… uh.” She furrows her brow. “I forgot.”

She sounds a bit like a confused kitten. You pat her on the knee, ignoring the twinge in your parts. “We can talk about it later,” you promise. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to take a cold shower.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> that was. only somewhat kinky? tbh i was expecting to write something a little less vanilla, but this is just what happened
> 
> you can [reblog this](http://unintelligible-screaming.tumblr.com/post/155362638974/ill-met-by-moonlight-part-3) if you want. or read other stuff i write on tumblr too. (what's life without shameless self-promotion honestly)


	4. Chapter 4

You take that shower. You wander around, tired and spent, and then things get hazy—you recall falling asleep with an arm flung over you, but it may have been a dream.  
  
When you wake, your body tells you that it’s been a long time, at least eight hours’ worth, maybe more. The covers are pulled over your head, but light pierces the fabric, and when you sit up groggily there is sunlight streaming through the window, drenching Miss Blueberry’s bedroom in gold. You rub your eyes and sniff around you. The bed smells like your host. Also like sex.  
  
That happened, didn’t it? Oh man. You can’t wait to tell your friends how fun it is to fuck a faerie.  
  
You have a brief struggle with yourself regarding the relative merits of laziness versus getting up and figuring out where Miss Blueberry went so you can plan your imminent encounter with the queen of the fair folk. The struggle is resolved when you hear the front door opening. It’s followed by loud stomping—you are unsurprised that Miss Blueberry likes aggressively smashing her soles against the ground—and then the faerie pokes her head into the bedroom. “Oh, you’re awake,” she says.  
  
“Where were you?” you ask, tossing off the covers.  
  
“I had to make a delivery.”  
  
“There’s something on your cheek,” you say.  
  
It’s a drop of blood, and it smears when she rubs at it, bright red against her grey skin. You decide it’s better not to ask what “delivery” she’s talking about.  
  
Your clothes are in a heap in the corner, so you pull on your shirt while your fae host speaks. “You slept super late. It’s afternoon, sunset is in a few hours, and that’s the only time you’ll be able to enter the Court. We should get going.”  
  
“Fair enough,” you say, digging through the debris of her belongings to find your glasses. “First we gotta talk about the debt you incurred last night.”  
  
There’s a pause. Then: “Are you fucking _kidding_ me?”  
  
“I’m a prelaw student, honey, and I didn’t get off,” you say sweetly. “I require compensation.”  
  
She throws her hands up in the air. “Wow, okay! You know, if you’re looking for round two, starting with _that_ is a huge turn-off right there!”  
  
“I’m not looking for round two,” you say. “Or, I wouldn’t be opposed to the idea, quite the opposite in fact, but I’m on a bit of tight schedule. I just wanted to let you know I have something in my back pocket if push comes to shove.”  
  
“What, you’re just keeping it until you feel like using it?!”  
  
“I was under the impression that was common practice for your kind.”  
  
“Yeah, but. But. You’re a human.”  
  
“I’m part dragon. We like to hoard things. Leverage included.”  
  
“I knew the offer to fuck had strings attached,” she says. “Now get in the car so I can get rid of you faster.”

 

When you step outside her house, the street is hazy, despite being only a few feet away from the doorstep. It’s… weird. You feel like you could see the pixels if you squint hard enough.  
  
She takes her car keys out and extends them forward, and her car is just _there_ , and you could’ve sworn it wasn’t there a second ago, but you can’t quite be sure that you just didn’t notice it. She unlocks the passenger door for you and you resolve to stop thinking too hard about the logistics of fairyland.  
  
The engine starts with a furious growl, and she’s floored the gas before you’ve managed find the seat belt. “Whoa there,” you grunt as your skull comes into abrupt contact with the headrest.  
  
“What?” she asks, looking genuinely confused.  
  
There’s an odd stretching sensation to reality, and suddenly the two of you are zooming along a busy highway. You grimace at the queasiness in your gut. “Mind if I ask how long the drive is?”  
  
“Depends on traffic. It’ll slow down in once we enter the city. Everyone wants to be near the Court. Most don’t get in.” She wrinkles her nose. “But you’re a mortal, so you’re interesting and they’ll let you in anyway, even if there’s a waitlist.”  
  
“I do always strive to be interesting,” you say. “How far away is the city?”  
  
She gives you a weird look. “Um…?” She gestures to the windshield.  
  
You blink. You could have _sworn_ you were on the highway, but no, the car is crawling along, struggling through standstill traffic along a crowded city street. The roar of honking and chatter from foot traffic pounding the choked streets fills the air, barely muffled by the rolled-up windows. A heavy beat from a faraway boombox vibrates through your bones.  
  
“Oh, you’re fucking with me,” you say.  
  
In the lane next to you, a truck driver with mismatched horns glances down at you, does a double take, and leans out his window to shout something you can’t hear.  
  
You shake your head. “I hate fae travel.”  
  
“What do you have against going in straight lines?”  
  
“Your definition of straight lines seems designed to turn my kidneys inside out.”  
  
The sun has finally touched the horizon, and the colors that spill over the sky compete with the pulsing lights of the city, turning on one by one. They burn like neon and flicker like torchlight, gilding the sides of skyscrapers whose giant logos are in a script you can’t read, whose hulking scrawl shifts when you look at them out of the corner of your eye.  
  
When you look from a larger perspective, the jammed highway is a writhing snake, and its violent urban rhythm winds toward a single spot. In the center of the city, a single skyscraper stands so tall, its uppermost reaches dissolve into the darkening clouds. It looks as if it’s made of blocks of obsidian, glittering like starlight on a black ocean.  
  
“What’s that?” You point. You think you know what the answer is.  
  
“It’s the Queen’s Court,” says Miss Blueberry. She’s looking straight ahead, calm and unmoved, but there’s a hint of something else in her voice, a touch of reverence she can’t quite suppress. There’s an itching in your palms. You can’t help yourself. You roll down the window and take a long sniff.  
  
It smells like a storm front. It smells like _glamour_. The structure radiates power through the air, prickling your skin.  
  
As you get closer, people on the sidewalks are beginning to dance, their wings shimmering in the dimming air. You wish you could take a photo, but electronics don’t work in this place unless they’re entwined with faerie magic, like the car you’re struggling through traffic in right now.  
  
Miss Blueberry pounds on her car horn. “What’s taking so long, huh?” she shouts out the window. “You in the blue SUV! Yeah, you! I’m talking to you! There’s a spot open to your left! If you’re gonna go that slow you can switch lanes and get out of my way, asshole!”  
  
The blue SUV doesn’t seem to care. Miss Blueberry shakes her head in irritation. “At least in the mortal realm they can fucking _drive_.”  
  
You frown. “It’s almost sundown. We might not get there in time.”  
  
She groans. “You’re right. We need a shortcut, or I’ll be stuck with a debt riding my back forever.”  
  
She starts to search her dashboard with her fingers, pressing down at random intervals. “Where is it?” you hear her mutter. “It’s here somewhere…” Then the place below her index finger lights up in blue. “There we go,” she says, and the blue spot forms a rune that looks like how fermented flowers smell.  
  
She addresses the blue rune. “I’m on the crossroads between twenty-third and forty-seventh. I need an escort to the Court for me and one other person, before sundown hits.”  
  
Nothing happens. Then, a scratchy voice echoes into the enclosed space, as if from far away: “ _You got an appointment?”_  
  
“No, I don’t have an appointment,” she snaps. “I’ve got a sword about the length of my leg, though, so if you want a _demonstration_ —”  
  
“ _Alright, alright, on our way,_ ” the voice says quickly. The blue rune disappears.  
  
You raise your eyebrows. “Is that the fair folk version of a phone call?”  
  
“More like a direct line,” she says. “They’re kind of incompetent and half the time they don’t even answer, but sometimes if you shout at them enough they’ll do you a favor.”  
  
“Okay,” you say, and suspicion starts to trickle in, because you’re fairly sure that the average fae can’t just get an escort to the front door of the Queen’s Court, no matter how threatening they sound. “When you say escort, what—”  
  
Before you, the traffic is parting like a wave. Coming down the lanes of traffic, steady and  sedate, are six… things.  
  
Their bodies shimmer like a beetle’s carapace. The proportions are almost humanoid, but not quite, just off enough to be disturbing. They have wings, but with none of the beautiful, sweeping elegance of the wings belonging to the faerie next to you—they’re multi-jointed, and they look like something belonging to a bee, or a wasp. There are spikes all over them, and you call them _things_ because their expressions are flat and dead.  
  
The cars and dancers bend away from them like trees, falling silent where there was once noise. You don’t blame them. These creatures are unsettling in a way you can’t describe, and the closer they get, the more you cringe back into your seat.  
  
“Oh, finally,” says Miss Blueberry, annoyed. “Took them long enough.”  
  
When they reach the car, she hits the gas and speeds down the aisle they’ve created, as if this is nothing more special than a traffic light turning green. As she drives faster, the creatures keep pace, carving a path ahead with nothing but their dead, steady stares. The passerby move away without prompting.  
  
“What are they?” you whisper, and this is it, this the first part of faerieland that makes you truly scared.  
  
“Drones,” she says.  
  
_Drones._  
  
Legendary creatures that serve the queen herself, fashioned from the discarded bits of flesh and power left over from faeries she decided were unworthy. You don’t know of a single person who has seen them and lived. You swallow.  
  
It’s not long before the car stops at the sidewalk, right in front of the Queen’s Court. This close, there’s a crackling in the air that makes the hairs on your arms stand up straight. The drones march to a pair of tall black doors, turn on their heels, and go still enough to be statues.  
  
“Well,” says Miss Blueberry. “This is your stop.”  
  
The drones are right there in the corner of your eye, they won’t stop _staring._ Your stomach is hollow with nerves.  
  
“You have to get me through the doors first,” you say.  
  
She rolls her eyes. Her expressions are so exaggerated as to be comical, and you can’t help but find it endearing. “Fiiiiine,” she says, and gets out of the car.  
  
The two of you walk up to the doors. They’re black basalt and have a metal padlock, identical to the ones barring the mysterious door in her house. She reaches lazily with a claw and it clicks open.  
  
“So,” she says. “That’s one debt done.”  
  
“You still owe me.”  
  
“I know.”  
  
You glance at her, at her dark blue eyes and proud shoulders and wings with the tiniest hint of an anxious flutter. On an impulse, you reach out and grasp her hand.  
  
She twitches, surprised, and you step forward and kiss her.  
  
When you’re done, a touch of her sweetness lingers on your tongue. You say, “I can’t just keep calling you Miss Blueberry, you know.”  
  
“What, planning on making this a regular thing?” she says.  
  
You don’t come up with an automatic no, and that alone adds another layer of nerves. Your answer _should_ be no. You’re walking into an incredibly dangerous situation and letting her seduce you further is a bad idea of epic proportions.  
  
“I was thinking,” you say, even though thinking is the opposite of what you’re doing right now. “I want you to give me your name.”  
  
She tenses, and then laughs loudly, shaking her head. “You’re hilarious.”  
  
“I’m serious.”  
  
“Oh come on. A couple hours of sex for my true name? That’s so far from being an even trade-off that it’s in an entirely different dimension.”  
  
“I’ll make it more even,” you say. “I’ll give you _my_ name, under the condition that if I do, you swear to tell me yours.” The name of a mortal holds less power than the name of a faerie, so unless she's clever about you'll be fine, but this is still a colossally stupid thing to do.  
  
“Why?” she says, searching your face. “Why do you want it?”  
  
It’s getting darker. The horizon is busy swallowing the sun, and you have only moments to get through that door before your time is up.  
  
"Do we have a deal?” you ask.  
  
She nods.  
  
“My name is Terezi Pyrope,” you say.  
  
Her breath catches, and her hands come up to touch your shoulder like she can't help it. She leans in, lips brushing the curve of your ear. “Vriska,” she whispers. “Vriska Serket.”  
  
_Vriska Serket._  
  
A shudder runs through you. You’re acutely aware of where your skin touches hers.  
  
You step back, turn to the door, and push it open.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well, at least now i can call them by their names, right?


	5. Chapter 5

  
The doors shuts behind you without a sound. You’re standing in a long hall with a high ceiling. The walls are rough gray stone, shadowed alcoves cut out at regular intervals, and the floor is checked with squares of white and black marble. At the far end you see the hazy outlines of… something. A door, perhaps?  
  
The stench of glamour is overpowering.  
  
You’ve come here to rescue Karkat Vantas, who is half-human and half-fae and was taken to the faerie world by someone named the Marquise after a deal gone wrong with the Queen herself. After wrangling your way into the land of the fair folk and to the Unseelie Court, you have now reached your destination, and you don’t know what to do with yourself. The plan was to engage the Queen in a negotiation for the release of Mr. Vantas, which you anticipated to be highly difficult, but you didn’t consider that there may be difficulty in actually _locating_ the Queen.  
  
Your footsteps echo.  
  
This hall must be another example of the fae lands’ space-bending qualities, because as you walk, you lose track of time entirely. At one point you think to look behind you and you find that the entrance you came through has receded entirely into shadow. The far end of the room doesn’t appear any closer.  
  
Your body doesn't tire, but your mind is left with nothing to do but close in on itself. You can’t help but linger on the dangers ahead of you and the very real possibility that you will die or be trapped here—thoughts you’ve been avoiding so as not to get distracted and make a mistake.  
  
Eventually you get fed up and stop in your tracks.  
  
“Alright, what’s going on?”  
  
Your words echo into nothing. You wait and wait and there is no response. You sigh and wonder what you expected.  
  
There’s a tap on your shoulder.  
  
You whirl around. A small, humanoid being is standing behind you. She has white stone-like skin, ragged, multicolored clothing, and an open, helpful expression. She reaches into a messenger bag, takes out a slip of paper, and hands it to you.  
  
You take the paper and unfold it. It reads: _Her Magnificent and Imperious Majesty, the High Queen of Unseelie, has accepted your request for an audience. You may enter when you are called._  
  
“So what, this is like a waiting room? An antechamber? Very cozy. I love what you’ve done with the place.” You glance around. A space finite yet infinite, looping into eternity… you add, “Or is this more like a loading screen?”  
  
The being tilts her head in an earnest but ineffectual gesture. You now see has the words “Post Mistress” printed on her messenger bag. It’s hard to be frustrated with her lack of speech; something about her demeanor is just intrinsically endearing. In fact, you find yourself trusting her already. You wonder if it’s a type of glamour, but when you focus and try to dispel it, nothing happens. Maybe she’s just nice.  
  
You rub your eyes. “Alright, so do I keep walking, or stay put, or…?”  
  
But when you look up, she’s gone.  
  
You keep walking. Then you don’t. Then you walk again. As you do, you find yourself thinking about the sunset, that brilliant wash of color even as the world turned toward dark, and how you kissed a faerie named Vriska.  
  
Vriska Serket. It fits her, you think. It sounds like the hiss of a blade slicing through air.  
  
And then, suddenly, as if the world has unformed and reformed in the time it took you to blink, you are standing at the end of the endless hall.  
  
There’s a door, but it’s not really a door. It’s not even a doorway, although it’s shaped like one. It’s more like a hole cut into the universe. Through it you see nothing but darkness, thick and impenetrable.  
  
Another tap on your shoulder. Once again, the Post Mistress is there. She gives you another slip of paper from her bag.  
  
_You may enter._  
  
“Thank you,” you say, because there’s nothing wrong with being polite. “Should I, um, walk into that?”  
  
The Post Mistress nods. She offers a small smile.  
  
“Okay.” You take a deep breath, staring into the inky blackness. “Time to get on with it, then.”  
  
It’s not as if there’s anywhere to go except forward.

 

 

 

Weightlessness.

 

 

 

The wind smacks you in the face and almost sweeps you off your feet. You regain your balance and look down, and then you realize how close a call that was. You’re standing at the center of the very top row of seats in a vast amphitheater. There are no rails. The ground is at least a hundred feet below.  
  
The seats are filled with fae. From this distance they look like a thousand gems arrayed in a gigantic jewel box: a thousand glittering wings, a thousand pulses of power, a thousand gleaming eyes all fixed on you. It makes you feel incredibly small.  
  
And then, as if that wasn’t bad enough,  a sharp, giggly voice echoes across the amphitheater, and when you hear—  
  
“Well, well, _well!_ What _do_ we have here?”  
  
—it activates a primal part of your brain that sits up and screams that it’s time to forget Vantas, forget the money, and fucking _run._  
  
The Queen sits on a throne on the low dais at the dead center of the rings of seats. It’s far away, but her presence is somehow magnified across the distance, and you can see her with sickening clarity—the wild and impossible cloud of hair, the brilliant fuchsia of her eyes, the bone white of her teeth.  
  
“I see a mortal,” she says, mouth curving in a mockery of a smile, “has come to seek an audience.”  
  
Whispers break out among the crowd. The faeries, who must be the nobles of the Unseelie Court, look at you as if you’re a particularly amusing KFC autoplay ad and they’re deciding whether or not to stoop so low as to grace you with their attention.  
  
“Why don’t you come down and stand before me?” says Her Majesty. It’s obviously an order.  
  
You’ll admit it to yourself: you want to go back. You want to walk back through the dark doorway, down the unending antechamber, hitch a ride along the highways of Unseelie and Seelie, go back through the 7-Eleven, and tell Dave, _sorry I didn’t grab your boyfriend, and I guess I’m not getting that $100,000, but there’s no point in paying off my college debt if I’m not alive to enjoy financial stability._ But the doorway you came through has vanished into the wind. You aren’t leaving if the Queen of Unseelie doesn’t want you to.  
  
And besides, you’re Terezi Pyrope. You don’t give up, and you don’t lose.  
  
You carefully make your way down the steps to the dais at the bottom. The whispers follow you, and one or two faeries try and grab at you, for what reason you’re not sure, but you dodge and keep moving.  
  
You stop a few paces before the throne, realizing that the rumors are true: the Queen of the Fae wears no glamour. Her power is so great that it's a physical force in the air, a pervasive pressure on your skin. She doesn’t need to disguise herself to be feared.  
  
“Usually when people meet the Queen, they bow,” says the Queen. Her eyes are narrow and sharp. The fake cheer in her voice is wearing thin.  
  
“I respect your power and authority, your magnificent and imperious majesty, but as I am not your subject, I will not bow,” you say. “I’ve come to negotiate as equals.”  
  
She stares blankly. Then she breaks into heaves of laughter, accompanied by a matching roar of hilarity from the stands. “Equals!” she shrieks. “You’re real funny, little human.”  
  
“I am only following the guidance laid out in the Statute of Tam Lin,” you say. “Which states that when a mortal serves as an intermediate party in a negotiation between a non-present, non-mortal being and a member of a Court, the mortal is to be treated as equal in status to the faerie being deliberated with, for the purposes of the negotiation.”  
  
“Only if the mortal is inhuman,” she says. “And… well…” She makes a show of looking you up and down insultingly.  
  
You’re well aware of the insignificance of your human status in comparison to her own, but status in that sense is just another set of rules that someone else wrote for you, and you’ve never seen the point in following rules that are not your own. You give her a smile of your own, icy and ruthless.  
  
“ _Au contraire,_ your majesty. I am only three-fourths human. And since dragons are, in fact, traditional intermediaries in inter-realm disputes…”  
  
The Queen laughs again, light and tinkling, but forced all the same. “Alright, little dragon, tell us what you want. I’m willing to entertain your proposition.”  
  
“I seek the return of one Karkat Vantas, who I believe to be held here against his will, on behalf of his lover,” you say.  
  
“Ooh, this is a _romance_ we’ve got here, is it? How charming. And what are you offering in exchange?”  
  
You pause. This is it. You know this shit backward and forward, but this is more than legalese and supernatural knowledge, it’s the most precarious part of this entire scheme. There are a hundred tales of mortals collecting their loved ones from the land of the fair folk, and the process is always different. Piles of gold, a firstborn child, a duel to the death—the only constant is that faeries love a show.  
  
“A game,” you say. “And we will gamble on the outcome.”  
  
The Queen pauses, considering. Her eyes are wide and pretty and cold as winter. She taps an elegant foot against the ground. Then she says, “Alright.”  
  
“Alright?” you ask uncertainly.  
  
You didn’t really expect to get this far this fast.  
  
“Fine by me,” the Queen says. “What kind of game do you have in mind?”

Um.  
  
In fact, you were kind of hoping you would have more time to think.  
  
“Well, your majesty,” you say.  
  
The thing is—  
  
“What is it?” says the Queen.  
  
“May I have a moment to deliberate?” you say.  
  
—you don’t actually know what kind of game you want to play.  
  
The Queen looks at you like a predator looks at prey. “Sure,” she says. “But just one thing. You mentioned the Statute of Tam Lin, didn’t you, and you claimed your rights as a… you called it an ‘intermediary party’? I’m sure you remember the reason why you have those rights.”  
  
“I do.” According to the Statute, if a mortal comes into the land of the faeries on behalf of a higher power, they must be treated as an equal. In your case, the ‘higher power’ is a rather socially awkward time djinn named Dave, but you’re also strengthened by the fact that your mission here represents the _original_ higher power, love itself.  
  
“And I’m sure you also remember section IV, subsection (b),” says the Queen.  
  
You nod slowly. “I do.” Subsection (b) states that all parties are entitled to a champion, representative, or intermediary in any given negotiation  
  
All parties, including her. What kind of champion does the Queen of the Faeries think is suitable to act in her name?  
  
“Good,” she says. “Because I’ll let you choose the game, within limits, but you won’t be playing against me. You’ll be playing against my Marquise.”  
  
You bite the inside of your mouth so hard you draw blood. You should have guessed. The Marquise Mindfang, known for her role in crossing the boundary between this world and the mortal world in order to hunt down mortals who have annoyed her Queen. The one who stole Karkat Vantas.  
  
“According to the Statute, I’m allowed to see your champion before the rules of the negotiation are set,” you say. You’re hoping that if you meet her, you can figure out a way to outsmart her. At least it'll be a hell of a lot easier than trying to outsmart the Queen herself.  
  
The Queen waves her long-fingered, claw-tipped hand. Behind the dais, a pair of double doors opens with a suitably dramatic boom. “Come on over here,” she calls.  
  
A figure steps out, then hesitates, as if uncertain. Your view of the Marquise is blocked by the throne. You crane your neck to see and take a long sniff for good measure.  
  
Her hair is black and gleaming. Her wings glitter with all the colors of the sunset. She smells sweet and sour and cerulean and so, _so_ familiar. You see her and your chest hurts, sharp and sudden, as if your heart has been cut to the core.  
  
“You called?” says Vriska.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay, so, i've read _a midsummer night's dream_ , as everyone in 10th grade at my high school was fated to do so once upon a time, but my favorite faerie-related work of literature is _lords and ladies_ by sir terry pratchett. it's hilarious and well-written and so, so good, and you should totally read it, even though this fic pretty much has nothing to do with it. just... it's... i kind of reread the book it this weekend and now i want to talk about it constantly. yeah.


	6. Chapter 6

The Queen keeps her eyes locked on yours with that big, vicious smile, and in that instant you _know_ she knows. She knows every single reason why the sight of Vriska on that dais, sword at her side, expression blank, hurts you in such a stupid and melodramatic way.

Because you really should have seen this coming. “ _I track down debtors,"_ she told you. She straight-up told you everything outright except for her title, and somehow you never made the connection. Surely you aren’t that stupid. Surely.

(No, you’re not, it’s just that you didn’t want to realize it, because you didn’t want to ruin this thing the two of you had, where you banter back and forth and try to get one over each other and you find it hard to take your eyes off the places where the light gleams on her hair.)

“Marquise,” says the Queen. “This is the mortal you’re gonna go up against! She’s requested a game, isn’t that cute? And I know how much you like games.”

Vriska gives you a cold once-over, as if she never took your name and gave hers in return. “...yeah, I think I got this one,” she says in a long, patronizing drawl, and the rest of the Court titters.

“Now, our little mortal guest needs to spend some time thinking,” the Queen says, “and ya know, I think I might just feel like accommodating her.” She snaps her fingers.

Two drones emerge from the double doors behind the dais and approach you. Their movements are economical, intent, but their eyes are lifeless, filmed over with a pearly white sheen, and you stumble backward. “Hey—hey, that’s not part of the deal,” you manage to say.

“Aw, don’t go complaining now! You want to enter my Court, you have to go by my rules. And there’s nothing in that Statute of yours that forbids me from giving you a touch of old-style Unseelie hospitality.”

“If you give me a moment I’m sure I can find a subclause,” you try, but the drones catch your arms and start dragging you forward. “I’m positive this is some kind of breach of—!”

A drone claps a hand over your mouth. Its grip is as cool and immovable as stone. You kick it in a place somewhat approximating an ankle. It doesn’t react, but your toes feel like you slammed them into a wall.

“I’ll see you at sundown tomorrow, little dragon girl,” says the Queen, waving, as the drones take you past her—past Vriska, who doesn’t even deign to _look_ at you—and through the dark doors. “Don’t worry, I’ll give you all the peace and quiet you need for contemplation. You’ll need to think real hard to find a strategy that’ll save you.”

She giggles, and the doors slam shut.

The drones take you down flights and flights of rough-hewn stairs, more than you can count, until your ears pop from the pressure change and you’ve traveled mind-bendingly deep into the hollow belly of the earth. It’s dark and damp down here, and something lingers in the air that dulls your sense of smell. You can only barely see your way by the faint reflections of light in the musty pools of water that gather at every corner, which only begs the question of where exactly the light is coming from. You suspect fae bullshit is at work here. You’ve lost all sense of direction, and that and the constriction of your senses is worse than being bound and gagged.

The drones take you to a long row of cells, dark vaults whose entrances are blocked with iron bars, deadly to any faerie that might be trapped there. The drones shove you through the bars. Literally. You pass through solid metal with a strange tingling sensation and land on hands and knees on the cold earth beyond.

You hear clanking as they leave you there. You rest your forehead on the damp, uneven ground and try to breathe. The darkness is a nearly physical presence on all sides. 

“Who the fuck are you,” croaks a voice.

You jump up and clutch the bars. The voice came from outside the cell, not too far away. “Ahah, I know better than to answer that one,” you say. Rather than echoing, your speech is oddly muffled, as if this place is dulling your hearing as well. The stranger doesn’t respond. You say, “May I have some clue as to who I’m speaking to?" 

A stirring of movement is visible in the cell across from yours. Its inhabitant moves forward stiffly, and a shaft of dim light falls across his face. Messy dark hair, brown skin, wide crimson eyes. A hint of glamor, but nowhere strong enough to fool you.

You blink. “Oh. Mr. Vantas."

Karkat Vantas flinches. “You know my name.”

“Relax, I’m mortal too.” You can’t use it against him the way you could if one of you were a full-blooded fae. “Well, I suppose I should introduce myself. I’m your lawyer.” 

“Excuse me, _what._ ”

“Of course you may be excused!” you say brightly. “I am your lawyer. You beau is paying me a quite exorbitant amount of cash to see you home safely.”

“Dave sent you?”

“He did. Now I’m here, bargaining with the Queen of Unseelie for your freedom. Feel free to thank me at any time.”

“You can go shove a faerie’s candycorn horns up your sphincter. I didn’t ask you to be here.” His face crumples. “Fuck, now you’re probably going to die because of me. This is so fucked up. At least Dave didn’t try to come get me himself, he’s way too nice, he’d get himself chopped into tiny pieces and the pieces used as doormats by the entire population of Unseelie—”

“There will be no dying on my watch. I have a plan.”

“Really?” He radiates skepticism.

“Yes.” A half-formed plan that you may or may not be able to finish by the time the drones reappear to bring you before the Court again. (A half-formed plan that you will have to use against _Vriska._ ) But he doesn’t need to know that.

He sighs and pulls his knees up to his chin. “I won’t ask what it is. I’d like to hold onto some small vestige of my hope before it deserts me like the backstabbing whore it is.” One of his eyes are nearly swollen shut and a deep cut runs crookedly from his hairline down to the level of his nose. Blood drips down his face and onto his ragged, torn shirt collar, and the sight of it jogs your memory.

Right. _Right._ God damn it, it was right in front of you that night you spent at Vriska’s dwelling. The door with the eight glowing locks—she opened it and you heard someone yelling for help, and after she came out there were flecks of blood on her hands. You spent an hour eating her out while the person you were supposed to be there for was being kept right down the hall. And then you fell asleep next to her and in the morning she had to make a “delivery”... and you are such an _idiot_ that you thought you were being clever.

You’re laughing, a terrible retching laugh that leaves your throat feeling like you swallowed sandpaper. You’re practically alone who knows how far underground, and you have no idea what to do, and it’s all so immensely, twistedly hilarious that you think you might die.

Karkat is looking at you in concern. “Oh Jesus, you’ve gone off the deep end, I am so fucked they might as well stick me in a sexy lifeguard suit and start the porno cameras.”

You like this guy. You can definitely understand why Dave likes him. The last shudders of your uncontrollable chuckles stop shaking your shoulders and let you slump against the bars. “So how did you manage to get yourself into this mess?”

He scowls. “It would be great if you could quit it with the judgmental tone, Miss Thinks Being Trapped In A Creepy Fae Prison Due To Her Own Bullshit Choices Is Funny.”

“We don’t always get what we want,” you say. “My intel said you made a bad deal with the Queen or something like that.”

“ _I_ didn’t make any deals, asshole. My dad was the genius who bargained with her.”

“Really?” 

“Stupid fucking idiot of a faerie wanted to stop serving the Court and go frolic in the human realm. Her imperious majesty wanted his firstborn son in exchange. He was like ‘oh yeah sure bro’ and then went around having one-night stands with humans, using his glamour to get his way like the slimy piece of used toilet paper he is. He figured no hanging around equals no consequences, and unfortunately he was right. Now I’m here handling the fallout.”

He says all of that in a single burst of furious ranting, like he has an entire Niagara Falls’ worth of anger pent up and has been waiting to get it all out. You wince in sympathy. “That’s… frankly fucking terrible, dude, I’m sorry you have to deal with that. But why now? Generally with firstborn-focused contracts, payment is collected after birth or on the first birthday.”

He shifts awkwardly. “Uh, well, I’m trans. And I only settled on my identity a few years back, so…" 

“Hmm. That makes quite a lot of sense.” It also appears that there are no loopholes you can conveniently exploit. Dammit.

As the two of you fall into silence, you hear a very, very faint noise, coming from somewhere far, far up above. You hold out your hand in a _quiet_ gesture to your prisonbuddy companion and listen hard.

It’s some kind of eldritch fae music. You hear the strains of a melody, floating down to where you huddle in the cold and the dark, notes lingering like snowflakes in the air.

“ _...and I’m on tonight, you know my hips don’t lie…_ ”

“This is Shakira,” you say flatly. “This is hit single ‘Hips Don’t Lie’ by Shakira.” You can feel the slight tremors of a boombox echoing through the foundations of the prison.

Karkat nods gloomily. “They were playing Britney Spears a few hours ago. Before that it was Katy Perry songs from 2012.”

“This is horrible. It’s possibly the horriblest of all the horrible things that have been happening to me lately.”

“You should try being me. At least you signed up for this,” he says, and you grimace, because yeah, you did.

Abruptly, footsteps fill the corridor.

They sound hard and heavy, like whoever’s coming isn’t interested in fucking around. You and Karkat freeze. Your gazes meet—you’re tense with apprehension, but he looks terrified. You both back away from the bars.

A light appears in the mouth of the hallway. It’s from a curved sword, glowing with blue flame.

Vriska walks with her weapon in her hand and an arrogant tilt to her chin. She stops in front of your cell, and her face twitches and crumples into something almost like desperation.

“Terezi,” she says, and the name rings through you like a bell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> let's pretend that being a faerie has given vriska some vague, ooc ability to actually disguise her emotions for three whole minutes.


End file.
